PARADISE FOUND.
"You might have made it longer," murmured Linda,
Who with moist eyes had listened, and to whom
The time had seemed inexplicably brief.
Then with an arm round either parent's neck,
And with a kiss on either parent's cheek,
She said: "My lot is as the good God gave it;
And I'd not have it other than it is.
Could a permit from any human lips
Have made me any more a child of God?
Have made me any more your child, my parents?
Have made me any more my own true self?
Happy, and oh! not diffident to feel
My right to be and breathe the common air?
Could any form of words approving it
Have made us three more intimately near?
Have made us three more exquisitely dear?
Ah! if it could, our love is not the love
I hold it now to be—immortal love!"
With speechless joy and a new pride they gazed
Into her fair and youthful countenance,
Bright with ethereal bloom and tenderness.
Then smoothing back her hair, the father said:
"An anxious thought comes to us now and then,—
Comes like a cloud: the thought that we as yet
Have no provision from our income saved
For Linda. My few little ventures, made
In commerce, in a profitable hope,
So adversely resulted that I saw
My best advance would be in standing still.
As you have heard, all that we now possess
Is in a life-annuity which ends
With two frail lives—your mother's and my own.
So, should death overtake us both at once,—
And this I've looked on as improbable,—
Our little girl would be left destitute."
"Not destitute, my father!" Linda cried;
"Far back as thought can go, you taught me this:
To help myself; to seek, in my own mind,
Companionship forever new and glad,
Through studies, meditations, and resources
Which nature, books, and crowded life supply.
And then you urged me to excel in something;
('Better do one thing thoroughly,' you said,
'Than fifty only tolerably well,')—
Something from which, with loving diligence,
I might, should life's contingencies require,
Wring a support;—and then, how carefully
You taught me how to deal with slippery men!
Taught me my rights, the laws, the very forms
By which to guard against neglect or fraud
In any business—till I'm half a lawyer.
You taught me, too, how to protect myself,
Should force assail me; how to hold a pistol,
Carry it, fire it—Heaven save me from the need!
And, when I was a very little girl,
You used to take me round to see the houses
As they were built; the clearing of the land;
The digging of the cellar; the foundations;
You told me that the sand to make the mortar
Ought to be fresh, and not the sea-shore sand;
Else would the salt keep up a certain moisture.
And then we'd watch the framework, and the roofing;
And you'd explain the office and the name
Of every beam, and make me understand
The qualities of wood, seasoning of timber,
And how the masons, and the carpenters,
The plasterers, the plumbers, and the slaters,
Should do their work; and when they slighted it,
And when the wood-work was too near the flue,
The flue too narrow, or the draught defective:
So that, as you yourself have often said,
I'm better qualified than half the builders
To plan and build a house, and guard myself
From being cheated in the operation.
Fear not for me, my parents; spend your income
Without a thought of saving. And besides,
Had you not trained me aptly as you have,
Am I not better—I—than many sparrows?
There is a heavenly Father over all!"
"Sweet arguer!" said Percival, "may He
And his swift angels love and help our Linda!
Your mother and myself have tried of late
To study how and where we might reduce
Certain expenses that have been,——"
But here
The dinner-bell broke in; and lighter thoughts—
Thoughts that but skim the surface of the mind,
And stir not its profound—were interchanged
As now more timely; for the Percivals
Lacked not good appetites, and every meal
Had its best stimulant in cheerfulness.
"Where shall we go to pass our holidays?"
The mother asked: "August will soon be here."
"What says our Linda?" answered Percival:
"The seaside or the mountains shall it be?"
"Linda will go with the majority!
You've spilt the salt, papa; please throw a little
Over your shoulder; there! that saves a quarrel.
To me you leave it, do you? to decide
Where we shall go? Then hear the voice of wisdom:
The mountain air is good, I love the mountains;
And the sea air is good, I love the sea;
But if you two prefer the mountain air,—
Go to the mountains. On the contrary,—"
"She's neutral!" cried the father; "what a dodger
This little girl has grown! Come, now, I'll cast
Into the scale my sword, and say we'll go
To old Cape Ann. Does any slave object?
None. 'Tis a special edict. Pass the peas.
Our rendezvous shall be off Eastern Point.
There shall our Linda try the oar again."
Dinner was ended, and the gas was lit,
And The Day's last edition had been put
Into his hand to read, when suddenly
Turning to Mary, with a sigh he said:
"Kenrick, I see, is dead—Kenrick, our friend.
'Died in Chicago on the seventh instant,—
Leaves an estate valued at seven millions.'"
"Indeed! our faithful Kenrick—is he dead?
Leaves he a wife?"—"Probably not, my dear;
Three months ago he was a single man;
I had a letter from him, begging me,
If I lacked funds at any time to draw
On him, and not be modest in my draft."
"But that was generous; what did you reply?"
"I thanked him for his love, and promised him
He should be first to hear of wants of mine.
Now let us to the music-room adjourn,
And hear what will not jar with our regrets."
They went; and Mary mother played and sang;
Played the 'Dead March in Saul' and sang 'Old Hundred,'
'Come, ye Disconsolate,' 'When thee I seek'—
And finally these unfamiliar words:—
O, give me one breath from that land—
The land to which all of us go!
Even now, O my soul! art thou fanned
By the breezes that over it blow.
By the breezes that over it blow!
Though far from the knowledge of sense,
The shore of that land thou dost know—
There soon wilt thou go with me hence.